


SVS2-16: Gift Exchange

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Change is inevitable. Jim has to decide how to handle it, while Blair makes some decisions of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SVS2-16: Gift Exchange

## SVS2-16: Gift Exchange

by Corbeau

Author's website:  <http://www.squidge.org/5Senses/>

The Sentinel Slash Virtual Season is based on characters and concepts developed by, and belonging to, Pet Fly Productions. The episodes of SVS are intended for private, personal enjoyment only. No money is being made, or will be allowed to be made, by any of the SVS authors or by FiveSenses, Inc. from the writing and distribution of these episodes. Any original characters introduced in an SVS episode belongs to the episode author and to FiveSenses, Inc. and should not be used without their permission.

Note on Safe Sex: Episodes of SVS may contain depictions of consensual m/m sex. These depictions may or may not be accompanied by specific mention of items necessary for safe and healthy intercourse. It is the intention of FiveSenses, Inc. and all SVS authors that, even when such items are not explicitly mentioned, their use is to be assumed as a matter of course. All of us at FiveSenses, Inc. are aware of the risks of unprotected sex in today's world and strongly advocate the practice of safe sex, including the use of condoms and other protective devices.

This story is a sequel to: SVS2-15: Brackett's Game 

* * *

Author's E-mail: Corbeau47@aol.com 

Notes: Thanks to DiDanaan for the beta. Any resemblance to a well-known American short story is not in the least coincidental. 

* * *

**GIFT EXCHANGE**  
by Corbeau 

"Whaddya mean, no beer?" Rafe stood frozen in shock. 

Henri Brown sighed loudly as he scanned the sky over Cascade. "I didn't say no beer; I said no beer until the job's finished." 

Megan snickered as she pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves. "Give it up, mate. He's locked up the amber till we've done our bit." 

"It isn't even ten a.m., and you want beer?" Joel frowned. "Should we start to worry? What were those statistics about alcoholism and police, Blair?" 

"That's Doctor Sandburg to you people." Simon beamed as if he'd written the dissertation himself. 

"This from the man who almost booted me out the door when I mentioned the Thin Blue Line." Blair took a test swing of his sledgehammer. "It depends on whose research you consider most reliable, of course, but most studies put the incidence at around --" 

"Hey, wait a minute before you sign me up for rehab!" Rafe glared at his co-workers as he carefully rolled up the sleeves of his designer work shirt. "I didn't mean right now, I meant later. This is going to be thirsty work." 

"Which is why," Henri explained patiently, "there's plenty of bottled water in the fridge, and Gatorade." 

"Still, he's got a point." Megan walked over to the corner of the yard and stared down at the stained and cracked patio. "This isn't exactly brain surgery. Breaking up this ugly wart might be easier with a bit of a buzz on. What's the harm?" 

Henri folded his arms and stood resolute. "This is a nice neighborhood. They're not used to a bunch of cops with a buzz on." 

"A bunch of cops and one anthropologist." Megan grinned at Blair. "I'm sure anthro types are too refined to get sloppy drunk. Prim as a bunch of librarians." 

Blair grinned back. "Boy, you haven't met many librarians, have you? They drink like the American Legion." 

"Are we going to work, or are we going to chat all day?" Jim swung his sledgehammer down with a force that sent concrete chips flying. 

"Whoa, John Henry!" Blair laid a hand on Jim's arm. "The plan is to break it up, not pulverize it. Henri can recycle the pieces into stepping stones if we're careful." 

Jim's testy remark had succeeded in guilting the group into a working mood, and they gathered around the cracked square of concrete. It was stained and pitted; vigorous weeds had colonized every possible opening. Simon shook his head. "It won't take much to break this up; it's half gone already. Whoever built this did a pretty poor job. Looks like the usual do-it-yourself project that wasn't done too well." 

"H's new house was a rental for years and not too well maintained," Blair explained, "but the structure's sound." 

Henri nodded. "If this place hadn't been a fixer-upper, I couldn't have bought it. I never thought I could afford something in this neighborhood." 

"Which is why we must be on our best behavior, lads," Megan admonished in a plummy British accent. "Squire Henri is now a _homeowner_ \-- Lord of the Manor and all that." She sashayed across the yard to bring the wheelbarrow closer. 

"Hey, you're not still pissed that you're not getting a sledgehammer, are you?" Henri asked. "It's not that I don't think you're strong enough --" 

"It's that nobody trusts you with a blunt instrument," Jim and Blair chorused. 

"Oh, shut up and pound." 

The sound of the hammers and picks made conversation impossible as five of the men attacked the patio. After a while, they stopped for a water break and watched Megan and Joel lift chunks of concrete and transfer them to the wheelbarrow. Megan almost dropped one on her foot when Jim took off his shirt, revealing the snug and sleeveless undershirt beneath. 

Jim, oblivious to the impact of his shirt-shucking, leaned over to examine the remains of the patio and glared at it like it was a lying perp. "No wonder this thing was in such crappy shape. There's no drainage. Some idiot built it right over the dirt." 

Rafe looked confused. "As opposed to what?" 

"He's a city boy," Henri apologized. "Never lived in anything but an apartment." 

Simon took up the lesson. "There should be a bed of gravel and sand under it. Any concrete patio needs drainage, even in a lot drier place than Cascade. Somebody was lazy and thought he'd take a short cut." 

"Or it was built by some bloke who thought reading directions wasn't manly," Megan suggested. 

"Well, it makes our work easier." Jim hefted his sledgehammer again and went back to pounding. 

The others soon followed, although Blair and Megan -- clearly distracted by the view -- were the last to resume their tasks. All worked steadily after that, and it didn't take long for the former patio to be reduced to a mosaic of ragged chunks. Hammers were eventually laid aside, and everyone pitched in to help Megan and Joel move the last pieces of concrete to the side yard. While they worked, Blair and Joel discussed the merits of various kinds of decorative concrete stains, while Rafe and H argued about the pros and cons of stepping stones versus planter beds as the eventual use of the recycled concrete. 

By the time the last chunk had been moved, it was almost noon. Since the day was only partly cloudy, they decided to take advantage of what passed for picnic weather in Cascade. H had made a deli run the previous evening, so the work crew was amply rewarded for the morning's efforts. With the heavy work done and the beer no longer off limits, everyone got increasingly mellow, even Jim. He slouched down in one of H's mismatched outdoor chairs and stretched out his long legs. "So, what do you plan to do with the yard now? Put in another patio, the right way?" 

"Nah, I was thinking about a deck. Maybe with some of that recycled fake wood stuff that Hairboy keeps talking about." 

Blair pointed his beer bottle in Henri's direction. "That's _Doctor_ Hairboy to you." 

Megan made a face. "Fake wood? Sounds tacky." 

"It's not." Blair sat up and began lecturing. "A lot of people use it now. It's a combination of waste wood and recycled plastic that doesn't warp or rot -- which is great in a place like Cascade. Low maintenance --" 

"I like that," H interrupted. 

"-- which is just the ticket for a busy officer of the law, and environmentally responsible to boot. Finding a market for recycled material is every bit as important as --" 

"Whoa, Blair, take a breath." Rafe held up his hands. "What's your new career going to be, decking salesman?" 

"Sure, Rafe. That would make excellent use of my education. I could do the definitive study on the influence of environmental awareness and income level on decking choices in the Pacific Northwest." 

Joel looked around. "He _is_ kidding, right?" 

Jim rose abruptly, clutching his beer bottle, and walked over to the site of the now ex-patio. "Are you thinking of putting the deck here?" 

"Hell, no," H replied. "Right off the back of the house, where it should have been in the first place. I can't imagine why someone would want a patio on the far side of the yard. Dumb idea." 

Megan wandered casually over to stand near Jim, nudging the toe of her boot into the dirt. "Maybe they did a lot of cooking outdoors and didn't want to do it close to the house. Maybe they were afraid of fire." 

Blair joined them. "Yeah, Cascade can be a real tinderbox, in the ten minutes or so between rainstorms." 

Megan gave him the finger and continued to poke around, kicking clods of damp soil, picking up stray bits of concrete. "Maybe someone had a garden shed on top once, or a kid's swing set..." 

Jim shook his head. "Not likely. No bolt holes in the concrete." 

Blair nodded absently as he squatted down to move bits of dirt around with a stick. "Earthquake country. If you bothered to build a foundation for something, you'd bolt the structure to it." 

Gradually the rest of the well-fed laborers wandered over to join their fellows. It was that or fall asleep. Joel walked all the way to the back fence and turned to look back at the house. "A deck would look good there, especially with some kind of awning or pergola on top. Like having another room." 

Simon perked up. "Another place to host the annual Major Crime barbecue. I'm tired of hearing the people with houses bitch about how many of you live in places without backyards. They're beginning to feel put upon." 

Henri grinned. "If they help me build the thing, I'll volunteer to host next year." 

Rafe looked slowly around the spacious yard as he drank his beer. "Looks sort of ratty right now, but it has possibilities." 

"Yeah, Doctor Hairboy recommended a landscape person. She's just graduated from the horticulture program at Cascade Community College, so she doesn't charge much." 

"But she's good?" 

"Blair says so. He used to date her sister." Henri watched Blair, intent on his excavation -- and Jim, intent on Blair. 

"Those days are gone forever," Rafe commented. 

"Yeah, that's for sure." H fixed his sometime partner with a penetrating stare. "You still have a problem with that?" 

"No, I don't think so. Not any more." They watched the tableau in companionable silence for a few minutes. From the look on Jim's face, one would think that someone digging around in the dirt with a stick was the most fascinating sight on earth. Megan was still turning over rocks, and Simon was enjoying the rare semi-sunny afternoon in Henri's most comfortable lounge chair. 

Joel came back to join the group after circumnavigating the yard. "So what are you going to do with that bare patch now that the patio's gone? Plant grass?" 

"Maybe -- or maybe bushes, or flowers. Let's see what the lady from Deveraux Designs has to say." 

While Rafe made lah-di-dah motions, Megan spoke up. "This would be a good spot for a perennial bed. Soil is nice and loose here." She held a clod of dirt in one hand, letting a fine rain of soil fall to the ground as she manipulated the friable mass between her fingers. 

"Not all of it," Blair added. "Only toward the center. There's an obvious line of demarcation here, and here..." 

"So you're an expert on dirt, too, Sandy?" Megan snickered. "No pun intended." 

Blair flicked his stick at her. "I may have specialized in cultural anthropology, but I've been on a lot of digs in my time. I came darn close to specializing in archaeology. Until I decided live people were more interesting than dead ones." 

"He's right," Jim said abruptly. "About the dirt. I noticed the hammer felt different when I hit different spots. The center had more give than the perimeter." 

Blair smiled. "Megan may be right, H. Part of this soil has been dug already. Maybe there was a flower bed here before." 

"Come on, Hairboy, that patio was here for _years_ \-- at least that's what the realtor said." 

Blair rose to his feet, tossing his stick into the bushes. "Soil disturbances leave traces that are still discernible after _millennia_ ," he replied. "If this were a site of potential archaeological interest, I'd say that soil demarcation looked exactly like... Megan! What have you got?" 

Megan started at Blair's peremptory tone. She looked at what remained between her fingers, the small core left after all the soil had been absently rubbed away. "Oh dear...it looks like we've disturbed Fluffy's last resting place -- or Fido's." 

Blair held out his hand and she placed the object into it. "Would somebody get me some water?" 

Since Joel had switched back to water after a single beer, he handed his bottle over. Blair washed the last clinging dirt away from what was clearly a bone -- a small, delicate bone. He sighed, and slowly shook his head. 

"It's not a canine or feline bone, although it's often mistaken for one. It's a distal phalange, a finger bone." He raised his eyes to his friends, eyes that were sadder, older, than they had been a moment ago. "A _human_ finger bone." 

Seconds of dead silence were broken by a heartfelt moan from Henri Brown. 

Blair turned to Jim, who seemed to be staring intently at the center of the square of bare soil -- except his eyes were closed, and his nostrils flared. Blair moved quickly to stand beside his partner, speaking softly and lightly stroking his back. After a few more seconds that seemed like hours, Jim raised his head, his eyes meeting Blair's. Then he turned to the group that had instinctively gathered closely together. 

"I don't think it's the only one buried here." 

Blair walked over to where Henri now sat on the grass, muttering curses under his breath. "Sorry, H." He rested a hand on the big man's shoulder. "At best, what we have here is a dig..." 

"And at the worst..." All eyes turned to Jim. 

"It's a crime scene." 

* * *

"Simon, that sucks. We're right here, and the Chief says we have to bring in Lau to take charge of the scene? She's only been with us two weeks." 

"That's the point, Rafe." Simon removed his well-chewed cigar from his mouth and gazed at it as if it held the secrets of the universe. "When a corpse is discovered in a detective's backyard, it does not look good if said detective's longtime colleagues and friends head up the investigation." 

Rafe bristled. "But the whole thing has nothing to do with H; he's only been in the house a few months, and that patio was obviously there for years. How can anyone --" 

"It's OK, Rafe." Henri turned from the dining room window, where he'd been dejectedly watching a forensics team taping off a section of his new backyard. "The Chief's right. Even if nobody in the PD thinks I had anything to do with this, it wouldn't look good... Think of what the press could make of it. Wish I knew what was going on out there, though." 

Everyone made a point of not looking at Jim, who was intently watching the activity in the yard. "Lau's not happy, I can tell you that. In fact, she's headed this way looking like she wants to chew nails." 

A moment later the newest addition to Major Crime entered the room, distractedly running her fingers through short black hair that already looked like it been styled with a weed-whacker. "I have a problem, guys." 

Simon smiled. "Only one?" 

"I'm not counting the sheer embarrassment of the whole situation. This has got to be one of the worst ways to start a new job in the history of employment." 

"Nobody holds it against you, Pat. We're lucky we had you around, or the whole thing might be in the hands of another division altogether." 

Henri approached his new colleague. "It might be yet, or not a police matter at all, right? We don't even know that an actual crime has been committed, let alone a major one." He turned to Blair, hopefulness written all over his face. "Couldn't it just be archaeological? An old Indian burial or something?" 

Jim watched his partner squirm, presumably trying to balance truth with tact. "Well, probably not that," Blair admitted. "There's no record of recent indigenous settlement anywhere around here. If it were as old as a Native American burial I'd expect a small bone like a phalange to exhibit a higher mineral content by now, if it survived at all..." As Henri's face fell, Blair looked stricken. "It could be historical, though -- not ancient, but too old to justify further investigation." 

H perked up a bit at that. "Sure! Even if it is a murder, if it's a hundred-year-old murder there's nobody left to prosecute." 

"It could just be unlawful disposal of a body," Megan added. "Like that old woman in Nevada who dumped her husband's body in the desert because she couldn't afford a funeral. Got the local cops in a bit of a tizzy, thought they had a murder on their hands." 

"Sure," Joel agreed. "This area was pretty rural a hundred years ago. Burying someone on your own property wasn't that big a deal." 

Lau held up her hand to cut short the rampant speculation. "The sooner we can get Henri's uninvited guest evicted, the sooner we'll know... and therein lies the problem. I really want to do this by the book, and the book says you excavate an unidentified burial as carefully as an archaeological dig." 

"You do if you don't want a defense lawyer to trash your case later, anyway. So what's the problem?" Simon asked. "CPD contracts with forensic archaeologists to do that sort of thing." 

"I know, I've got the list --" 

"Is Warren giving you a hard time about the budget? I'll talk to him for you --" 

"It's not the budget, sir. It's the fact that not a single one of those people is available right now." 

"What? None of them? Where the hell are they?" 

Lau flipped open her notebook. "Leary is recuperating from gall bladder surgery, Bell is having a baby any minute now, Gallegos is in South America with something called the _Equipo Argentinio de Antropologia Forense_ , and the rest..." 

"Are at a major symposium in Tennessee?" Blair interrupted. 

Lau nodded. "You got it. A very big deal from what everybody's secretaries told me." 

"A major deal," Blair agreed. "I heard about it at William Bass's presentation when Jim and I were in San Francisco last year... Gallegos? That's Elena Gallegos, right?" 

"Yeah -- you know her? I've been trying to reach her in Argentina, so I can find out if she's due back any time soon... but so far no luck." 

"I'm surprised she's not back already. She's got a summer class at Rainier scheduled in less than two weeks, and she's a stickler for prep. She doesn't usually cut it this close. Did you get her cell number?" 

"Nobody even admitted she _has_ a cell phone." 

Blair pulled out his own. "The Archaeology Program secretary is a tad overprotective of the faculty. Let me see what I can do." 

Looking out the window but ignoring the activity in the yard, Jim listened as Blair wandered into the living room, pushing numbers. As he began to talk, Jim paid more attention to the tone of voice than to the words. He made a bet with himself that his silver-tongued spousal equivalent would get the number within three minutes. He had thirty seconds to go when Blair bounced back into the dining room. 

"Got it. You want to call?" 

Lau shook her head. "Better someone she knows -- especially someone so good at persuading people. But use my PD cell; it's our dime." 

While Blair again wandered off to a quieter part of the house to make his call, everyone but Jim got up and raided H's refrigerator, took bathroom breaks, or just prowled around. Being so close to an investigation without participating, especially when that investigation involved one of their own, was the very definition of frustration. Jim was no less frustrated, but that feeling receded as memories of the trip to San Francisco shoved it aside. Even though he and Blair hadn't been able to attend much of the conference, Jim still remembered how impressive Blair had been, asking questions after Dr. Bass's presentation. For some reason Jim had never told his partner what he'd overhead as the eminent professor left the auditorium. He'd looked back at Blair and remarked to another panelist, "If that young man isn't a forensic anthropologist, he should be." Pretty heady stuff coming from one of the founders of the field. Jim idly watched as forensics erected a tent over the -- grave, they'd all have to call it now. He really should tell Blair about that remark. One of these days. 

Blair came back into the room, waving his cell. "OK, got her. She wants to talk to the officer in charge." Lau stopped pacing, breathed an audible sigh of relief, and grabbed the phone. 

The other detectives drifted back as Lau talked, and H made a beeline for Blair. "So, will she do it?" 

Blair grinned. "Yeah, she will. She's through down there, just had some travel delays -- heavy rain washed out some of the roads. She's flying back tomorrow and is willing to start the day after that." 

"Two days before she can start? Oh geez, the neighbors are gonna love me." 

"Sorry, H, it was the best --" 

Henri clapped a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "God, Blair, don't apologize! I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Without you, I'd be waiting a lot longer. It's just the waiting and the not knowing. Is my backyard somebody's old family plot or a murder scene?" 

Lau approached, still on the phone. "Hold on, Henri. You might not have to wait that long." She turned to Blair. "Been holding out on me, Sandburg?" 

"Huh?" 

"Dr. Gallegos tells me you know your way around a dig well enough to supervise this until she gets here." 

"Whoa! I'm not a forensic archaeologist... I'm not even an archaeologist." 

"She told me you'd say that. She also told me I shouldn't listen to you." Lau handed Blair the phone. "Here, you academic types can duke it out." 

Blair started talking as soon as the phone got near his face. "Elena, are you nuts? I can't... well yeah, but that was years ago... OK, maybe, but what about your grad students, there must be... nobody? Sure, I know my way around a crime scene by now but that's not the same as... yeah, I've been reading up on the forensic stuff, how did you know that...? Well, you can tell him he's got a big mouth." 

Jim knew Blair's goose was cooked as soon as he looked up to see the blatant entreaty on Brown's face. 

"Dammit, Elena... all right, but your plane better not be delayed." With a huge sigh, he turned the phone off and handed it back to a beaming Detective Lau. Then he threw up his hands and announced, "Looks like I'm supervising a dig, folks." 

* * *

Henri Brown drained his second cup of breakfast coffee and set it down on his kitchen table. "So if there's nobody left around Greater Cascade who knows anything about archaeology, who are all those other people digging up my yard?" 

Jim winced as H suddenly spoke right next to his ear. He'd turned sight and hearing way up without realizing it, focused as he was on the activity outside. "All two of them? Beginning grad students. They've had experience on digs, but not enough to organize one, or supervise it." 

"It's weird, isn't it..." 

"What?" 

Henri shook his head. "Blair's the one in charge this time, and we're the observers. Doesn't it give you a funny feeling?" 

"I've seen him like this before... in front of a class. He's not pretentious about it, or heavy-handed, but he makes it clear who has the authority in that classroom." 

Both men watched Blair direct the students as they used string and stakes to lay out a grid. Lau still kept a careful eye on the proceedings, and a forensics tech waited to process any evidence that eventually came to light. 

"You gonna stick around?" 

Jim shook his head. "Not much point. This thing is being excavated an inch at a time, and Blair doesn't expect to get close to anything significant until tomorrow. Even if he does, he doesn't want to expose the body until Gallegos gets here." 

"Makes sense. She's the one with the expert-witness cred." 

"I'm just the chauffeur today, and the gopher." 

"How come Blair didn't bring his own car?" 

"Mr. Ecological Consciousness, are you kidding? Besides, he thought you'd want as low a profile as possible to keep you out of trouble with neighbors. You've got enough cars in front already." 

"God, yes. Tell him I owe him one. Another one." 

"Besides, the little elves from Rainier have a van, they brought all the equipment on the list Blair emailed to them. If he forgot anything --" 

"Not likely." 

"They can run out for it." Jim rose from the table. "Now I need to go-fer some groceries, do laundry, clean -- the usual weekend domestic shit. And the loft still needs some minor repairs. Blair and I were going to do it together tomorrow, but it looks like he'll be busy. Thanks for the coffee." 

* * *

Usually cleaning and fixing up something made him feel good, Jim mused as he spackled a set of gouges on the wall near the door. It didn't seem to be working today. He was restless, irritated. OK, he was _entitled_ to be irritated, because some crook had messed up his home yet another goddam time. And he knew touch-up paint on these repairs wouldn't be enough. The difference in color between the repairs and the rest of the wall was going to be so obvious it would drive him nuts. They really should repaint the whole loft, but things were too busy right now... 

Jim sank back on his heels. Who was he kidding? Doing stuff like this without Blair, that was the problem. It was all too reminiscent of the bad old days, when this space wasn't much more than an empty shell. The dr had been all too fitting for the man who lived there... if you could call that living. It was strange, and not a little painful, to face the James Ellison of five years ago, even as a mere memory. What a prick that guy was... acting as if his barren substitute for a life was so important, letting Blair believe it until he gave up his own future to preserve it. Jim Ellison was one lucky sonofabitch, God (or whatever) knew why. Blair's life was given back to him, and later his future. Dr. Sandburg at last... no accolades and prizes and book contracts this time, but a chance to do what he was meant to do, to use that magnificent brain for something other than keeping Detective Ellison's sorry ass out of trouble. 

Speaking of miracles... this unnatural quiet, this enforced solitude, was all too reminiscent of more recent and more terrifying things; memories still raw. Life before Blair was uncomfortable to contemplate, like the universe before the Big Bang. Life without Blair, with Blair gone, _stolen_ , taken who knows where, suffering who knows what... that was terror, and pain, and an emptiness so profound Jim could barely wrap his head around it. Adam looking back at the Garden. Damned souls in Hell, fire and brimstone mere irritations next to the real torment, eternal denial of the presence of God. 

Jim rose, his knees protesting. He sat on one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the dark green wall, now mottled with patches of white spackle. Truth now... Blair was his life, that was the bottom line, the _sine qua non_ , as his partner would say. What was the literal meaning of that... "without which, nothing." That about summed it up. 

Whatever power looked out for Sentinels and Guides had been given a helluva workout by Sandburg & Ellison up to now, but maybe it had a limit. Maybe Guides were like cats, with a finite number of lives, but how many? Obviously a lot more than nine. Jim shuddered. What if their luck was due to run out? How long could they keep testing that particular limit? What if the next time was one time too many? 

Jim leaned on the chair a moment, contemplating the wall. Then he straightened abruptly and headed out the door, grabbing his keys on the way. Fuck this. Fuck the wall. He had more important things to do at the station -- some important research. Research. That would amuse Sandburg, except Jim had no intention of telling him about it. Maybe the right offices would be closed today, but most of what he needed he could get off the computer. He could finish touching up the wall later. As for the painting problem... he'd convince himself it was a "wall treatment." Or he'd dial down sight while he was home, and not let himself notice it. Or... or before long it wouldn't be an issue after all. 

* * *

Jim pulled up in front of H's new digs on Azalea Street for the second time that day. After his stint at the PD Jim had returned to the loft with renewed energy. The wall had been painted, damaged bricks replaced or re-pointed, the laundry done and put away, the place cleaned from stem to stern. His domestic fit was so intense that it wasn't until his stomach complained that he realized it was well past what normal people considered dinnertime. His first gut reaction had been a sharp stab of fear -- where was Blair? -- but he'd squelched that immediately. Summer days were long at this latitude, and Dr. Sandburg was probably just caught up in the pleasure of stretching his archaeological muscles after so long. 

As he got out of the car he noted that the van was still there, which supported his more rational theory. Lau's car was gone, which was hardly surprising. She had more pressing cases than one that might not even be a crime, or at least not a prosecutable one. Strangely, the evidence tech's car was also gone, but Jim recognized another as belonging to the police photographer who'd arrived this morning as Jim was leaving. He knocked on the front door. At this rate, H's new house was going to be almost as familiar as his own. 

"Jim, hi! Did Blair call you, or were you just getting paranoid?" 

"No, he didn't call me, and it's only paranoia if they're not out to get you." 

Henri opened the door wide and waved Jim in. "Point taken." H led the way to the familiar dining room. "He's still working." 

Jim walked to the back door and looked out through the screen. "Has he had anything to eat?" 

"Not what you'd call a real meal," H admitted, "and only when I threatened to sit on him and force-feed him." 

"Those helpers of his look like they're ready to pass out." 

"Amazing, isn't it? Those kids are close to a decade younger and he's got 'em worn out. I swear, if Blair could bottle whatever it is that keeps him going, he wouldn't have to worry about making a living. He'll end up richer than Bill Gates." 

Jim pushed the door open. "I guess it's time we took pity on the younger generation." 

They strolled into the yard. An exhausted-looking young man and woman were sifting dirt onto the ground, using a box with wooden sides and a screened bottom. As they sifted, they peered into the box with glazed eyes. An even younger man lounged in a chair, cameras slung around his neck. Jim recognized him as one of the PD's photographers. With the red hair, freckles, and cameras, he'd always made Jim think of Jimmy Olsen. He was watching Blair with obvious fascination. Jim frowned. 

The newly minted Dr. Sandburg was crouched over a barely grave-sized hole over a foot deep, using a small pointed trowel to remove soil from one square of the grid and convey it to a bucket. His clothes and gloved hands were covered in dirt, and there were streaks of it on his face. At some point he'd tied his hair back, but some of it had escaped, and the strands surrounding his face looked like they'd had repeated encounters with the soil of Henri's back yard. When he sat up, Jim could hear the bones and cartilage protest. He looked totally at home and happy as a clam. 

"Sandburg, are you planning to take root?" 

"Jim!" Blair scrambled to his feet, grinning like an idiot. "Is it almost time for dinner?" 

"Maybe somewhere in Hawaii. What happened to your watch?" 

"I took it off so it wouldn't get dirty. What time is it?" He looked at the wrist Jim stuck in front of his face, took off his glasses, cleaned them on the inside of his shirt, put them back on and looked again. "Oh, shit." 

He turned to the grad students, who had stopped sifting, a glimmer of hope in their eyes. "Geez, guys, I'm sorry. I had no idea it was so late." 

The female answered weakly. "It's OK, Dr. Sandburg." 

Uh-oh. Jim risked a quick glance at Blair's crotch. Jeans tighter all of a sudden -- hard to tell with all the dirt -- but nowhere near as blatant a reaction as before. Maybe he was getting a handle on his little problem. Good thing, or his career possibilities might be severely curtailed. 

"We know this could be important," the male student added, "but we are getting kinda hungry." 

"Kinda? More like starving I'll bet. Knock it off for now, and go get yourselves a pizza, on me. Jim, have you got a twenty?" 

Jim handed it over, ignoring the students' insincere protests and pondering Blair's creative definition of 'on me'. 

"But what about that bucket? It's the last from this layer." 

"Jim and I can do it. Go pig out, and I'll see you at eight tomorrow morning." He picked up the screened box. "Jim, grab the other end of this, will you? H, can you bring that bucket? Hey, Rick, we're ready for your last photo of the day." 

Everybody hopped to without question, Jim noticed, including himself. Too bad Blair's personality was incompatible with a career in the military -- he'd be a general by now. He had quite a gift for making people do what he wanted before they knew what was happening. Even people who weren't crazy in love with him. The world was damn lucky he'd chosen to use his powers for good. 

Jim picked up his end of the screen, squinting as H dropped the bucket of dirt into it. They moved it back and forth as Rick moved around the yard, taking pictures from various angles. Jim watched his progress from marker to marker, frowning. 

"It's not me he's interested in, you know. He has a real jones for archaeology." 

"You sure?" 

"Trust me... hold it." Jim stopped sifting while Blair poked at something in the dirt. "Never mind... just a pebble." 

"What happened to Jenny? I thought you needed an evidence tech around." 

"She lives close by, I told her to go home to her kids and I'd call her if I needed her. We haven't turned up anything since right after we started, so I doubted I would." 

"You found something else?" 

Blair glanced over to where H was helping Rick pack up his equipment. "Another bone," he said softly. "A middle phalange. Or, more accurately, half of one." 

"Seems odd that you'd find two bones in the beginning, then nothing." 

"Well, I have a theory about that." 

"Two bones -- excuse me, one and a half bones -- and you have a theory?" 

"I can't really tell without examining it under magnification, and maybe not even then. I'm no forensic anthropologist..." 

"Just like you're not an archaeologist?" 

"Can it. It looked to me like the second bone was cut. Why do you think bones representing approximately one-half of somebody's finger might be found in a different place from the rest of a body?" 

Jim thought a moment, watching the dirt sift through the mesh to the ground below. "If the victim is attacked with a knife, the hands usually have defensive wounds. Maybe a finger was cut most of the way through. And if somebody was dumping a body in the dark..." 

"They might not notice if the end of the finger came off during the process. It could have landed on the pile of fill, and ended up in a much different layer from the rest of the body." All the dirt had sifted out, and nothing interesting remained. "You see anything?" 

Jim shook his head. "Plain old pebbles. Can we eat now?" 

Blair seemed to notice his grubby condition at last. "Uh... I don't think I can go anywhere civilized without a shower." 

"We can pick up something on the way and take it home. Come on, I'll scrub your back." 

"I think you're going to have scrub more than that. This dirt gets _everywhere_." 

Jim reached around to dust off the seat of Blair's jeans. "Oh, that can definitely be arranged. When it comes to cleaning I'm very thorough." 

* * *

Once Blair had been dragged out of his archaeological fog and reminded of how little he'd had to eat, he was suddenly ravenous. Their stop at a Chinese take-out had included an extra large order of egg rolls. Blair usually frowned on those -- too greasy -- but now he was apparently too hungry to wait until they got home. Trying to keep his eyes on the road most of the time, Jim risked an occasional sidelong glance as his partner dipped egg rolls into the Styrofoam cup between his knees. Once dipped, they were twirled and then conveyed to the Sandburg mouth at breakneck speed -- presumably to keep drips from escaping. If so, the technique wasn't always successful. Several blobs, of a color not found in nature, had joined the contents of Henri's yard on Blair's shirt front. 

"Any of that crap gets on the inside of this truck, you're dead meat." A lengthy traffic light gave Jim the chance for a long look. Unfortunately, he managed that look just as the sexiest lips in the known universe, now shiny with peanut oil, had wrapped themselves around an egg roll. Blair looked almost obscenely satisfied, and way too suggestive of plenty of other times when those lips were wrapped around something a lot more substantial than an egg roll. 

"Light's green, Jim," Blair noted unnecessarily as the idiot behind them leaned on his horn. Jim briefly considered getting out of the truck and hauling the driver in for disturbing the peace, but quickly dismissed the idea. He wanted -- he needed to get back to the loft _now_ , while there was still enough blood in his head for his brain to function. 

The obscene apparition sitting next to him licked its lips. "I figure once we get home you won't want to eat right away. At least not the broccoli beef." 

Jim stepped on the gas. 

Cartons of food sat cooling on the kitchen counter while one James Ellison applied his gift for obsessive cleaning to the person of one grubby pseudo-archaeologist. He was careful to thoroughly wash every last fold and orifice, pointedly ignoring the increasingly obvious evidence of the cleanee's desire for more than personal hygiene. Jim had washed and rinsed the riot of hair twice and was now working conditioner through it. The look on his face suggested that Nirvana was just possibly attainable via hair care. Blair's voice brought him out of a near-zone. 

"Do you remember what I did with my fishing hat?" 

"Your what?" 

"Earth to Jim... my fishing hat? The one I wore when you first taught me how to cast?" 

"Uh... it's in the closet of your old room, I think. Why, are you planning to go fishing?" 

"No, doofus, at least not anytime soon." Blair stopped talking briefly when Jim lowered the shower spray to his curls, chasing out every molecule of conditioner, testing the strands with his fingers. "Mmmm... no, I need something to help keep my hair from contaminating the dig site." 

Jim turned off the water and started toweling his partner's soaked mass of curls, thinking that he must have developed strong neck muscles just to hold his head upright in the shower. "Aren't you locking the barn door after the horse has shed over everything?" 

Blair grabbed another towel and started drying Jim off, very slowly. "No, I was really careful. I borrowed a bandanna from H for awhile, but it got uncomfortable near the end. Besides, I wasn't really expecting to expose much besides dirt today. Tomorrow we might get close enough to the body to find hair and fibers, so I need to be really careful." 

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" 

Blair smiled, that light-up-the-room smile that turned tough dicks into horny guys who forgot they had any body part but a dick. "Yeah, I am. It is kinda fun to do this again, especially as 'Dr. Sandburg'. I kept wanting to look over my shoulder and see who those kids were talking to, though." 

Jim carefully draped the damp towels over the racks, spreading them out to dry. He turned around. "Well, do you think Dr. Sandburg could be persuaded to do any more excavating tonight?" 

Blair stepped up to his taller lover, stretching to wrap one arm around the muscular neck and caress the fine, damp hair with his fingers. He traced a finger around Jim's lips, pressing gently at the center until his probing finger was sucked inside. "Hm, I don't know. Do you know of any mysterious places that need exploring? Some deep, dark cavity, maybe?" 

Jim slipped his arms around the young man who now smelled more of herb and musk than dirt, sweat and sweet-sour sauce. He reluctantly released the finger. "I might. How skilled an excavator are you?" 

Blair withdrew his finger and covered Jim's half-open lips with his own, slipping his tongue between as smoothly as cream. Jim's hands slid down to press the smaller body against his own, hungry for more contact as that knowing tongue tasted and caressed every inch of his mouth. Literal hunger was forgotten as a deeper hunger took over, one that only one thing, one person, could satisfy. 

"Well, does my excavation technique pass muster?" 

Jim slipped his hands under his partner's delectable ass, lifting him upwards as Blair wrapped strong arms around his neck and even stronger legs around his hips. "Come on, Indiana. Let's go search for treasure." 

* * *

Jim was sleeping the sleep of the well-fed and well-fucked when the earthquake jolted him awake. It took him a second or two to realize that the source wasn't the Cascadia subduction zone acting up again; it was lying beside him. Blair was mumbling and twitching in his sleep. He didn't seem to be in the throes of some nightmare. He seemed not afraid but distressed, disturbed. Jim was trying to decide whether or not to wake his bedmate when Blair's eyes slowly opened. As they met Jim's, he gave a little shake of his head and punched up the pillows to lie back against them, half sitting. 

"Shit, that was weird. Sorry I woke you, man." 

Jim leaned over to slide a reassuring hand over Blair's chest and plant a light kiss on the forehead now wrinkled in thought. "What was weird? You didn't seem to be having a nightmare or anything. You looked more pissed off than scared." 

"Yeah -- confused, pissed off... I was dreaming about archaeology. Imagine that. Wonder where that came from?" 

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Chief. So you dreamed about the dig today... hardly surprising." 

Blair began fiddling with the sheet, pleating it into little folds between his fingers. "Well, no, I didn't, actually. That was the odd thing... I dreamed about one I was on years ago as an undergrad. Rainier had a major Inca site in Ecuador they'd been working on for years. I got to spend Spring Break there one year, doing stuff even more lowly than those kids I was supervising today." 

"Well, you said you were really interested in archaeology once. Maybe being on a dig again brought it back -- even though it was in H's backyard, not Ecuador." 

"Maybe. Except at first I was seeing the site as it must have been originally. It was full of people, and color, and life. Then it changed to some bleak, empty place. It was, I dunno... forbidding, I guess. I didn't feel welcome there any longer." 

"Your career took a different path; you said so yourself. Maybe you were thinking about the decision you made to go for live people and not dead ones." 

"Maybe." 

Jim sat up, matching Blair's angle, and slipped an arm behind his twitchy partner's head. "Do you regret taking on the job? H could have waited... or forensics could have done it. Do we really need an archaeologist?" 

"Well, in the words of Clyde Snow -- who, I remind you, is one of the giants in the field -- 'Having police exhume a skeleton is like having a chimpanzee do a heart transplant.'" 

"Christ, why don't you tell Serena that sometime? Make sure your insurance is paid up first." 

Jim was glad to hear Blair chuckle as he relaxed into the embrace. "Do I look suicidal to you? Hey, I didn't create it, I only quoted it. But you know what a good defense attorney could do if we don't do this the right way." 

"You don't think this is just an unrecorded historical burial." 

Jim could feel the sigh ebb and flow where Blair's skin met his own. "No. You've been around enough excavations like this to know what a burial cut is, right?" 

"It's the line of demarcation between disturbed and undisturbed soil. That's what you were about to say to Megan this morning, weren't you? It looked like a burial to you even before she found that bone." 

"It certainly looked like a hole that had been dug and filled in. That doesn't always mean a body, of course. People bury valuables, they bury time capsules... but I've now excavated a few layers of the contents of that hole, right to the cut. You noticed the shape, didn't you?" 

"Irregular." 

"Exactly. If you bury Grandpa in the yard, you dig a nice, rectangular grave, with straight sides. But if you've just whacked Grandpa over the head because you found out that he cut you out of the will..." 

"You're in a hurry, afraid of getting caught. You don't care about neatness; you dig a hole just as big as you need as fast as you can." 

"And you dig a shallower one. My guess is I'll get to the level of the skeleton by noon or so tomorrow. Then I'll have to stop and wait for the real archaeologist. Henri is gonna crawl the walls." 

Jim nodded. He should go back to sleep, but there was a subtle tension in the air that was familiar and welcome. Blair seemed wide-awake. In fact, he seemed downright lively, Jim amended, as he found himself blanketed by one semi-aroused partner. Some tiny, logical part of his brain tried to point out they both might feel the lack of sleep tomorrow, but all his other parts were jumping to attention like privates hearing the drill sergeant's bellow. Truth was, Blair Sandburg was like an addictive drug, and Jim Ellison was not about to turn down another hit. He'd had too many episodes of enforced withdrawal recently, and he never wanted to feel that way again. 

Blair's lips were right suddenly next to his ear, his throaty voice caressing. "Come on, stud. Your turn to explore Where No Man Has Gone Before." 

"Excuse me?" 

"OK, no _other_ man. Now, do you want to argue with me or fuck me senseless?" 

"Fuck Sir, yes Sir!" 

Before Jim knew what hit him, the Sandburg hands and mouth were all over him, seemingly defying the laws of physics to drive him crazy in way too many places at once. He gave himself up to the almost painfully exquisite feelings, opening every sense to the rush that was Blair. Their earlier lovemaking had been slow and tender; but Jim knew this would be fast and intense. Hard to believe his lover had been new to this not that long ago. He was definitely a quick study (at everything but rollerblading) and in this particular case the student was soon going to surpass the teacher. Jim watched as his now-rigid cock was expertly swathed in a condom and coated with lube. Beautiful, capable hands... beautiful, capable man... 

"Come on, Jim -- need you in me, _now_!" 

Blair was now beneath him, knees pulled up, totally open, face tense with need. 

"Anything you want, babe... anything..." Jim slid Blair's legs over his shoulders, positioned himself, and slowly leaned forward. There was a gasp as the head of his cock pushed in, but he wasn't sure which of them had made the sound. He waited, feeling Blair's fingers dig into the flesh of his back, waiting for that inner ring of muscle to unclench and welcome him inside. When it did he pushed forward quickly, urged by eager words and touches. When he was inside as far as mere flesh allowed, he stopped briefly, savoring the sensation. He arched his back, kissing his way down the beloved face underneath him. When he reached Blair's mouth he pulled back and thrust in again quickly, swallowing his lover's cry. 

Blair wanted it hard and fast, and Jim gave it to him. While he could still think a little he found himself wishing it could last longer, but then it might well kill him if it did. Blair was milking him, urging him with words, then just "Jim!" repeated over and over. Words stopped making sense altogether just before an animal sound tore out of Blair's throat, and Jim felt a slick, creamy wetness explode into the space between their bodies. The sight, sound and smell of Blair's coming was like a detonator to his own explosion, one that shattered him into a million pieces, and then drew them back to coalesce into a sated mass of bone and muscle. He barely managed to avoid collapsing on top of his partner, rolling sideways to land at least partly on the mattress. 

Jim got his breath back under control by force of will, then forced his reluctant body to move, dispose of the condom, and clean them both up. "Think you can sleep now?" 

Blair rewarded Jim with a sleepy, sated grin. "Oh, yeah. Best sleep aid known to man... and no prescription needed." 

Jim settled in, spooning up behind him. "Don't expect to see it advertised on TV anytime soon." 

Blair chuckled as he tugged Jim's arm closer against his chest. "Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?" 

"Once or twice." Jim bent his head to kiss Blair's shoulder. "Have I mentioned what a lucky sonofabitch I am?" 

"Mmmm... s'familiar." 

Jim felt the muscles beneath his hand relax into sleep, the breathing slow. Soon he slept too and dreamed of Eden. 

* * *

Blair sighed. "H is gonna be very unhappy." 

Elena Gallegos rose slowly from the ground where she'd been peering closely at the skeleton, now almost totally exposed. "God, this is harder in my forties than it was in my twenties." It didn't take a Sentinel to hear joints protest as she stretched. "I can't be _officially_ sure until I get these bones back to the lab, but if those aren't cut marks I'll eat my board certification. There are too many for it to be suicide. So I'm guessing cause of death -- stabbing; manner of death -- homicide." 

"Damn." 

"You did a great job with the excavation, Blair. Sure I can't convince you to go into my field?" 

"Too many newer bodies in more disgusting shape than this one. And you never should have quoted Mary Manhein at me." 

"My old teacher? What did she say that impressed you so much?" 

"If you don't mind low pay, night and weekend work, treacherous recovery sites, snakes, mosquitos, and poison ivy, then a career in forensic anthropology and bioarchaeology could give you amazing satisfaction." 

"Oh. That quote. Remind me to keep my mouth shut next time I try to recruit." Brushing off dirt, she wandered off to find the cooler that held bottled water. 

Jim stood next to Blair as they all looked at the excavated grave. The soil that had been removed and sifted lay in a large pile by the back fence. The hole was about five feet by less than three, more or less rectangular but with ragged edges. In the center was a hunched mound of bones, still held in roughly human shape by the remaining dirt and a few dried shreds of cartilage. It looked some macabre bas-relief; a _memento mori_ from a medieval cathedral. "Can you tell anything else, Chief? Sex? Age? How long in the ground?" 

"Pelvis definitely looks female, that's pretty obvious. Age -- based on what we can see of suture closure and epiphyseal fusion -- twenty to forty almost certain; twenty-five to thirty-five more likely. When was she buried? That's tougher without some lab time. At least five years anyway." 

"What tells you that?" 

"Smell. Or, more precisely, lack of a smell. When Megan first discovered that bone, you said there were more. How did you know that?" 

"Between the Army and the PD I've encountered enough bones to know what they smell like, Sandburg. Kind of musty. It's not easy to filter them out from the earth smells when they're buried, but I can do it with a little concentration." 

"But bones don't all smell the same, do they?" 

"No..." Suddenly Jim had a vivid flashback of that day in the Peruvian jungle, when a Ranger unit exhumed seven bodies. A grieving Army Captain had buried his men eighteen months ago; now a Sentinel watched as seven sets of bones were taken from those makeshift graves. 

"Candle wax. I remember when I watched the Ranger unit recover my crew... I could swear that I was smelling candle wax. I've smelled it lots of times since, when I had to deal with skeletonized bodies. But I don't smell it now." 

Blair reached out to rest his hand lightly on Jim's arm. "It's the smell of the fat in the marrow. It takes about five years to disappear." Blair began a subtle, soothing motion with his fingers. "I'm sorry, Jim, I should have thought..." 

Jim shook his head. "Forget it. It was over ten years ago. I'm surprised I still remember that. Most of the bodies I've run into since are a lot fresher than that and smell a lot worse. I wouldn't be likely to pay attention to something as innocuous as candle wax." 

Elena returned, dribbling water over her face and neck. "Blair, are you committing speculation over there?" 

"A little, based on pretty good data." 

Elena scrubbed her face with the tail of her shirt. "Well, as long as we're speculating... I think this is an old murder, but not necessarily beyond prosecuting. Those bones have started to coarsen and crack, and leach out some calcium phosphate. That suggests at least twenty to thirty years in this type of soil. But there's no sign of mineralization. If these bones were as old as your Detective Brown wishes they were, I'd expect to see some of that. I've dug up way too many bones in my time, and my instincts are pretty good." 

Blair squatted beside the grave for a closer look. "So... at least twenty, less than fifty?" 

"In a nutshell. Time to call back the Crime Scene Unit." 

* * *

Simon leaned back in his office chair and took a long drink of Columbian Mocha Cinnamon. "The Chief says the case is still Lau's." He let the babble of protest go on for a bit -- Lau was protesting as energetically as anyone -- then held up his hand for silence. 

"However, since Dr. Gallegos's final report makes it clear that Detective Brown was way too young to murder anyone when our victim was buried, there's no reason to move the case to another division. Lau is encouraged to call on the rest of you for assistance as she sees fit. She has a fresh eye; you have a knowledge of Cascade that she doesn't." 

"Yet." Lau sighed. "I may know a lot more about the recent history of Cascade after this is over." 

"So when did this murder take place?" Megan asked. 

Simon flipped through the report. "Late 1960s. Probably 1969." 

"What?" Rafe squawked. "How can Gallegos pin it down like that? Blair said nothing was discovered with the body except a few cotton fibers -- no intact clothes, coins -- nothing to suggest a precise date." 

Everyone turned to Blair, including Simon. "It's in the report, Captain..." 

"I'm tired of flipping pages, Sandburg. Explain." 

"Elena ran a bunch of biochemical tests on the bones, but the clincher was her test on radioactive isotopes." 

Joel frowned. "I didn't think radioactive dating was accurate on anything recent." 

"It's not that kind of dating. It's a fairly new technique --" 

"Nuclear testing! Of course!" Lau jumped out of her chair and began pacing. 

Blair nodded. "Nuclear testing caused the level of various radioactive substances in the atmosphere to rise pretty dramatically in a relatively short time. Remember the flap years ago about strontium 90 in milk? Well, it gets deposited in bone very easily, and it sticks around. The level in the atmosphere peaked around the early sixties, and in bone about 1969. Our skeleton had a pretty high percentage, so victim was almost certainly killed near that year." 

"Son of a gun," Joel exclaimed. "Guess there's a silver lining to even a mushroom cloud. It makes it a lot easier to figure out who our victim might be if we can narrow the time down that much." 

"We got lucky," Simon agreed. "About time. Rafe and Joel are going to canvass Henri's new neighbors, they're the least likely to piss them off." 

"Why not me?" Blair asked. "That sounds like the sort of thing I usually get to do." 

"But you do research even better," Simon replied. "You and Lau are going to go digging, not literally this time. She gets to begin familiarizing herself with our fine City bureaucracy by tracking down who owned and lived in H's house at the appropriate time. And you, Dr. Sandburg -- you get to look at old Missing Persons reports for a potential victim." 

"Aw, Simon, those old reports aren't even digitized yet. Some of them are on microfilm! That stuff gives me a headache." 

"I'll give you worse than that, Sandburg. Megan and Jim need to be in court for the next couple of days, so you're elected. Should be like old times." 

* * *

Two days later, Jim was just shutting the door of his truck in the visitor parking lot at Rainier when his cell rang. "Ellison." 

"Megan said you two finally got to testify this morning. How did it go?" 

"Pretty good, Simon, but if the perp wants to appeal his conviction I'll be forced to testify for the defense. The guy had an idiot for a lawyer." 

"Funny, Megan called him a 'bloody dill'. I think it means the same thing in Australian. Do you know where Blair is? Lau was looking for him earlier but he's not answering his cell." 

"Patel down in records said he rushed over to Rainier to look up something in the library. If that's where he is, he's probably got it turned off. Sounds like he might have discovered something." 

"Well, tell him to call Lau if you find him. _Before_ you two go to lunch." 

"Yes, Sir." Jim smiled as he pocketed the phone. Lunch was indeed one of the reasons he'd come looking for Blair, but he was planning to suggest raiding the fridge at the loft, after they'd worked up an appetite. A sensory sweep of the first two campus libraries that Blair was likely to go to yielded nothing. At the Social Science Library he lucked out. One of the librarians recognized Jim and let him know Blair had headed off to the Political Science Department about ten minutes ago. Jim's vision of a nooner was quickly being replaced by one of the drive-through window at Wonderburger. When he finally reached the right building, he sighed mightily. There were recent scent traces of his partner, but no familiar heartbeat. He could scan the entire campus and risk zoning, or he could try the departmental office first and see if anyone had seen Blair and knew where he was headed next. 

Deciding on the less risky course, Jim marveled at the unaccustomed quiet until he remembered that the semester was over and summer school hadn't started yet. He was just about to enter the corridor that led to the Political Science office when a snatch of conversation made his hearing sit up and take notice. 

"...Sandburg is so cute, don't you think? Is he going to teach summer school? I'd take a class from him any day." 

The snort from the other person in the room would have been audible without Sentinel hearing. "Honestly, I wonder sometimes what you young people use for brains. His doctorate is in anthropology, not political science. Even if he were teaching summer school, it wouldn't be in our department." 

"So why is he here? Come on, Mrs. Childers, I'll bet you know. You know everything. You're an absolute marvel." 

Jim leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and focused. Voice number two sounded much younger. Maybe she wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but she sure knew how to flatter the old battle-axe. 

"Well... Dr. Kelso did mention that Dr. Sandburg might be by yesterday or today to pick up a recommendation. He wanted to make sure someone would be in the office in case he came by during the lunch hour." 

"Recommendation? You mean like a job recommendation? Why didn't he just mail it?" 

"I don't know. Perhaps Dr. Kelso was hoping they could meet, since he's a good friend of Dr. Sandburg. And why must you put 'like' in such inappropriate places? When I was your age we were capable of talking properly." 

"Sorry, M'am. What job is he looking for? I thought Dr. Sandburg already had a job, working for the police." 

"As a consultant, part-time. You can hardly expect someone with a doctorate, not to mention an impressive publication record, to consider something like law enforcement as a career. One doesn't even need a B.A. for that." A sniff this time, not a snort. 

"But why would an anthropologist want a recommendation from a political scientist?" 

"Now that, at last, is an intelligent question. I don't actually _know_ , of course..." 

"But I'll bet you have a good guess." 

Mrs. Childers' voice dropped to a more confidential timbre. "The interdisciplinary Latin American Studies program at Berkeley is looking for a tenure-track anthropologist. Dr. Kelso knows the Director well from their days in -- that is, when they both worked for the Government. Dr. Sandburg has done a lot of fieldwork in South America and is quite fluent in both Spanish and Portuguese. It would be an excellent position for him." 

"I guess. It'll seem funny not to have him at Rainier any more, though. He's been here like, forever. I mean, he's been here a long time, hasn't he?" 

The battle-axe's voice went all soft. "Almost half his life, poor dear. He was only sixteen when he started. Mrs. Beutler was the secretary in Anthropology then. You wouldn't know her, she retired before you came to work here. She used to mother the students excessively, I thought, but in his case... better her than his own mother, I should think." 

"You knew Dr. Sandburg's mother?" 

"Actually, I never met the woman, but Mrs. Beutler did. She could rarely bring herself to speak negatively about anyone, but reading between the lines, as it were... for one thing she was much too young to be his mother, if you know what I mean." 

"Oh. I get it." 

"Flighty, too. The poor child was moved around constantly when he was younger. I remember Mrs. Beutler telling me one time that Rainier was his first real home. He's certainly lived in Cascade longer than anywhere else." 

"California's a big change from Cascade, at least as far as weather goes." 

"Actually, he'll probably like it a great deal better. Dr. Sandburg seems to feel the cold and damp more than some of us. I always expected him to go someplace warm when he was ready to move on. A young man with his qualifications should have plenty of choices." A chair creaked. "Now I must be off, I'm meeting someone for lunch. I'll expect that report to be finished when I get back." 

"Yes, Ma'm." Footsteps and the soft clicking of a computer keyboard replaced the voices. Jim closed his eyes briefly, then pushed off from the wall and headed back to his truck. He seemed to have lost his appetite for lunch. 

* * *

Jim was hunched over his keyboard, actually writing a report himself, when Blair breezed in. He was obviously bursting with news and looking obscenely pleased with himself. Jim tore his eyes from Blair after a quick recon and went back to staring at his monitor. This time, however, nothing on it seemed to make sense. 

"Hey, Jim, is Simon around? I think I may have identified our vic." 

Henri's head shot up from his desk. "Already? I thought you'd be at it for days." 

Blair bounced onto his toes. "I thought so too. You have no idea how many women disappeared from Cascade and environs within a couple of years. Pretty sad, really. It would've taken me forever to go through those files looking for addresses and ages." 

Joel wandered over. "It was the sixties, after all," he reminded his younger colleagues. "A lot of people wandered off to 'find themselves' or just plain ran away. Most were younger than our vic is supposed to be, though." 

"So tell us, Sandy, how did you narrow it down?" 

Blair grinned a shit-eating grin. "I utilized one of the most effective research tools known to humankind -- a librarian's brain." 

"Hope it was still in her head at the time," Jim grumbled. 

Blair ignored him. "The woman in charge of periodicals at Rainier's Social Science Library is amazing. Not only does she know her newspaper collection inside and out, but she grew up in Cascade and she's in her fifties. I thought she might remember something, so I took a chance and went over there." 

"Why not just call?" Megan wondered. 

Jim raised his head. He was rather interested in Blair's answer to that one himself. 

"I figured if she did remember something good, I could check the older newspapers while I was at it. They've got the most extensive selection around." Blair looked at his shoes. "Besides, I had ... some stuff to pick up." 

"Is this a party or a police station?" Simon's bellow made everyone around Blair jump, except Jim. 

"Simon, I think I know who the vic was." 

Somewhat mollified, Simon began chewing his cigar. "Give," he mumbled around it. 

"One of the librarians at Rainier, Jane Kowalczyk, remembered a case of a thirty-four-year-old woman whose husband reported her missing early in 1969. There was a lot of media coverage at the time, and she remembered it particularly well because her cousins lived on the next block. The same neighborhood where H's house is." 

Henri got up and joined the group. "Don't keep me in suspense, Blair." 

"We looked up the newspaper accounts, and the vic was indeed living at 336 Azalea, with her husband and kids, when she disappeared. Her name was Eileen Parker. She was never found." 

Henri sighed. Simon pulled out his cigar and contemplated it. "Did you tell Lau about this?" 

Blair nodded. "She'd already found the records for that period. The Parkers lived in the house for a few years after Eileen disappeared but then sold up and moved out. There's no record of Mr. Parker -- Ronald was his first name -- buying another property in Cascade. The next owners were an older couple who lived in it until both died. Since then it's been short-term owners, most of whom rented it out." 

Lau walked in just as Blair was finishing. "Sandburg, Lau, bring all your paperwork to Conference Room B. Let's see what we can put together." 

* * *

"So, do you think the husband did it?" 

Jim looked up from peeling potatoes to see Blair's familiar butt in the air. Unfortunately he was only putting the meat loaf in the oven this time. "Aren't you jumping the gun a little, Sandburg? We haven't even identified the victim for sure." 

Blair shut the oven door and leaned on the counter. "Well, not technically, no. Too bad she had such perfect teeth... no dental records. On the other hand, it's the enamel that protects the pulp, so it does make it a little more likely that we'll get usable DNA. Serena thought so, anyway." 

Jim put the cut-up potatoes in a pot and added water, then started slicing carrots. "I admit it's likely. It usually is the husband, and who else is in a position to bury a body in the backyard?" 

"Besides which, Elena said the angle and depth of cut marks on the bones suggested somebody at least five feet ten and strong." 

"And Ron Parker was a beefy five eleven. But the DA is picky about little things like actual evidence. Not a good idea to hassle the family until you actually know who the victim is... not to mention a waste of resources." 

Blair stole a piece of carrot. "Tell that to poor H. I've never seen him so eager to do the boring stuff. He was on the phone or the computer all afternoon, trying to track down the remaining Parker family. If we can find the kids we might be able to compare mitochondrial DNA." 

"Let's hope they haven't moved too far from Cascade. They all could have traveled a long way in thirty years." 

Blair picked up the Tupperware container next to Jim and peeked under the lid. "Brown sugar? You're kidding me! Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots -- when did you turn into June Cleaver? I'd say all this focus on the past has gotten you nostalgic, but your time machine didn't brake soon enough. This menu is more fifties than sixties." 

"Just as well. If I made the kind of brownies your mother did I'd have to arrest myself." 

"Hey, don't ask, don't tell. That's my motto where Naomi's early years are concerned. And don't change the subject. What's with the comfort food wallow? You OK?" 

"Fine. Just decided we needed a break from the usual chicken/pasta/takeout routine. I liked this kind of food when I was a kid. Nothing wrong with it. I even let you put ground turkey in the meat loaf." 

"Sure, in addition to pork and beef, not instead of. That has to cook a while before we start the veggies. Want a beer?" 

Jim took off his apron, folded it, and set it on the counter. "Sure, why not?" 

They watched the news, discovering that one of the TV reporters had tracked down the Parker connection -- maybe she knew the right librarians too -- and was engaging in the usual wild speculation and innuendo just this side of libel. Or was it slander on TV? Jim swore. 

"Hey, Jim, look on the bright side. Maybe the media attention will bring some of the Parker family out of the woodwork and we can get our ID." 

"And maybe it'll warn the perp and he'll leave the country." 

"Maybe you really need that comfort food." Blair turned all his attention to Jim. "Did you make some old-fashioned and near-lethal dessert?" 

Jim attempted to look self-righteous. "No." 

Blair kept looking. Jim tried to ignore him and watch the rest of the news. It was like trying to ignore the Spanish Inquisition when you were snugly tied to the rack. 

"Bought it. Boston cream pie." 

* * *

Two mornings later, Blair and Jim were waiting for the elevator in the CPD lobby. Jim turned to his partner, intending to make some crack about the slowness of this elevator versus the unreliability of the one at home. Blair was staring in the direction of the front door. Jim looked in the same direction, but everything looked like it did any other day... except for a slight, fortyish man standing near the entry, impeding the flow of traffic and looking lost. 

"You can look as long as you don't touch." 

Blair turned to Jim, obviously confused. "What?" 

"Come on, I caught you staring at that guy. I guess you're bored with tall and buff already..." 

"Asshole. Guess you've forgotten last night. Did I act bored? No, there's just something weirdly familiar about that guy. I'm sure I never met him, but -- holy shit! It can't be... Jim, come on." 

Jim found himself being hauled along towards the entrance. Too bad Blair hadn't tried out for the Academy; he would have aced the 150-pound drag for sure. He was doing pretty well at the 180-pound drag right now. 

Blair walked up to the man and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Excuse me -- is your name Parker, by any chance?" 

* * *

Simon and Jim watched through the one-way glass as Lau questioned Nathaniel Parker, middle child of Ronald and Eileen Parker. 

"You trying to tell me Sandburg recognized this guy as a Parker because he had the right _skull_?" 

"Well, not exactly, sir," Jim answered. "There were photographs in the papers and in the old case file, although they weren't good ones. Apparently he looks a lot like his mother. The thing is --" 

The door of the observation room opened and Dr. Sandburg breezed in. "Sorry, I just had to call Joe Uchida. What a gas! Did Jim tell you how I recognized the guy?" 

"He was about to," Simon replied, "but I'd rather hear it from you." 

"Well, Elena gave Joe several casts of the vic's skull, because he's a visiting prof for this special summer training institute Rainier is sponsoring on forensic anthro. It's never been one of Rainier's specialties, but this is a joint program with Pacific Tech and --" 

Simon sighed. "Anytime this year, Sandburg." 

"Right. Short version. OK. Uchida is a specialist in forensic reconstruction, and he was going to use the skull in his class. He'd do a reconstruction ahead of time, then compare his with the students' at the end. Elena thought it might be useful for us if the DNA thing didn't pan out, and it would be a freebie for the CPD, which Warren --" 

"You should hear the long version," Jim commented to Simon over Blair's head. 

"Ha, ha. The point is, I just saw Uchida's reconstruction last night, so it was fresh in my mind. Then it walked into the lobby this morning, albeit with a different hairdo. I think the poor guy was a little freaked." 

All three turned to the window. Simon folded his arms. "Lau's just finished explaining the situation, so Parker probably doesn't think you're a witch anymore. Now shut up and listen." 

"...was living in the house when your mother disappeared?" Jim admired Lau's technique as an interrogator. She sounded sympathetic, concerned. Parker slowly began to relax. 

"Besides my mom and dad, there was my brother and sister. I was ten and Becca was eight. Jerry -- Jerome -- was fifteen." 

"How did your parents get along?" 

"They fought a lot, I admit, but just yelling. I never saw my dad hit my mom or anything like that." 

"Where is your father now? Is he still alive?" 

"I... I don't know." 

"That's unusual, Mr. Parker. Did you and your father have a falling-out?" 

Jim could hear the man's heart rate increase. His discomfiture was obvious to anyone. 

"Look, I have to admit my father was not a nice guy. He was what you now call emotionally abusive. Sometimes I think getting beat up would have been easier. He was always criticizing my mom, telling her she was stupid, clumsy, unattractive. Nothing she did was good enough to suit him. They didn't go out much, because he'd always end up yelling at her for being such a slut, accusing her of throwing herself at guys." 

"Did she?" 

Parker ran his hands through his hair. "Hell, I was ten, what did I know? But I do know she was a good mother to me. It broke my heart when she left." He raised his face to look Lau in the eye. "Can you imagine what it's like to be ten years old and believe your mother's walked out on you? Abandoned you?" 

Jim winced like he'd been punched in the gut. He felt Blair move closer and slip an arm around his waist. Simon pointedly ignored what was going on next to him. 

"Finding out that she was dead, murdered -- that would be hard, but at least I'd know she hadn't left us kids on purpose." 

"So you wouldn't object to giving us a blood sample for DNA comparison?" 

"I'd welcome the chance. Anything to find out for sure." 

Lau looked at her notes. "So you don't know the whereabouts of your father. What about your brother and sister?" 

"Detective Lau, what you have to understand is, my mother's disappearance pretty well destroyed my family. I wasn't that close to my brother. He took after my father, and it didn't seem to me he got half as much grief afterwards as my sister and I did. I always assumed it was because Becca and I looked so much like my mother. Frankly, our lives were hell for the next ten years." 

"So you didn't get along with your brother?" 

"More like we didn't live on the same planet, even though we were in the same house. Five years seems like a big gulf at that age... but losing my mom must have been harder on him than I realized. He ran away from home at sixteen, got arrested for drugs, petty theft, assault, you name it. Spent some time in juvie, then graduated to grown-up prison. He died at twenty-five of a drug overdose. I found out when an old school friend read about it in the _Cascade Sentinel_ and called me up." 

"So you were already living in Seattle then?" 

"I'd just moved there. As soon as Becca turned eighteen I was out of Cascade. I had to wait until she was old enough to take with me. I'd be damned if I'd leave her with our father. He'd already done enough damage to her." 

Lau's head snapped up. "What do you mean?" 

"Not what you're thinking. The same kind he inflicted on me and my mother. He never laid a finger on either one of us, but that mouth of his was worse. Becca..." He slumped down in his chair. "She's had some problems with the wrong kind of guys, with drugs. It was the only way she could figure out to escape, I guess." 

"You seem to be the only one of your siblings who did escape." 

"No thanks to me. I was going down the same road myself when I first got to Seattle. I got lucky." 

"How?" 

"I was washing dishes in a restaurant when I met Sheila. She was one of the waitresses. I was a piece of work then, I can tell you... but she saw something worthwhile in me that nobody else did, including myself. Convinced me I wasn't the worthless piece of shit my father always told me I was. Bottom line, that woman saved my life." 

Jim slipped his arm around Blair's shoulders and pulled him close. He didn't give a fuck if Simon was watching or not. 

* * *

"God, I need another beer. This sounds like a soap opera." Henri reached for the pitcher in the middle of the table. A good chunk of Major Crime had taken over one of the large tables in the back of the bar, and were obsessively discussing the case that was foremost on their minds. 

Blair elbowed Jim in the ribs. "Told you the media coverage wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It flushed out Nat Parker." 

Megan drained her glass and reached for the pitcher. "He check out OK?" 

Henri nodded. "Some juvie stuff, minor possession, DUI-then a model citizen since he turned twenty-one. Not even a parking ticket. Got an AS degree at a community college as some kind of chemistry technician; steadily employed since graduation; good work record." 

"Sounds like he wasn't kidding about Sheila turning him around," Rafe remarked. "Did you say they got married?" 

"Right after he graduated," Lau sighed. "House in the suburbs, two kids. The sister used to live with them a lot when she wasn't in rehab. She's been clean for the last eight years, though. Confirmed everything her brother told us." 

"And neither one of them remembered anything important about the night their mother disappeared?" 

* * *

"Detective Lau, my parents fought all the time. I remember they were yelling at each other the last night I saw her, but it wouldn't have been anything unusual in the Parker household. It really upset Becca, though, and I'd try to do something to keep her occupied, as far away from the kitchen as I could. Most of the yelling seemed to happen in the kitchen, for some reason." 

"Where would you and Becca go?" 

"Usually her bedroom. It was the farthest away, and there was plenty there to distract her. We'd play records or listen to the radio -- she was nuts about the Beatles -- it helped drown out the noise downstairs." 

"What about your older brother?" 

"Sometimes he'd join in the yelling for awhile, but he'd usually get disgusted and storm out of the house. He tried to spend as much time away from home as possible, actually. Unfortunately, he wasn't too good at picking friends. That's how he got into trouble." 

"So that last evening was SOP for your family, and the next morning your mother was gone." 

"My dad said she was sleeping in and not feeling well. He was the one who got us ready for school. Could be she was already gone and he just didn't want us getting all freaked out, I don't know. All I do know is that when we got home from school that day, no one was there. The house was all locked up and we couldn't get in. We went to our next-door neighbor for help, and she called the police." 

"The police? Not your father?" 

* * *

Jim dug into the garlic fries. He wasn't drinking, since they'd taken the truck, so he had to have some indulgence. "The neighbor was suspicious, anyway." 

"Sure sounds like it, from her statement. Too bad she died five years ago; I'd love to interview her. She was a rather prickly left-wing feminist, and my guess is her opinion may not have been given much weight back then." 

"Still -- how did the husband avoid getting charged? He was the most obvious suspect." 

"No real, concrete evidence to charge him with anything. No indication of foul play. He was very cooperative about allowing a search of his house. Forensics seems to have gone over the kitchen, in particular, with a fine-tooth comb. There was no evidence of violence." Lau contemplated a nacho. "Remember, our vic was stabbed multiple times with considerable force. It would have been hard to hide evidence of that, even thirty years ago." 

"Nat Parker said Eileen was a good mother," Blair said. "Didn't people think it was pretty fishy that a woman like that would walk out on three kids?" 

"Statements from the couple's friends -- who, by the way, seemed to be more his friends than hers -- indicated she'd done a bunk more than once before. Always came back after a day or two." 

Blair frowned. "Did they really know that for a fact, or believe it because Ron Parker told them so?" 

"Why, Sandy, you suspicious little devil. That's cop-think for sure." 

"He's right, though," Lau replied, licking sour cream from her fingers. "If you read between the lines of those statements, that's exactly what's going on. There's no solid evidence she ever did any such thing. Just a lot of assumptions and innuendo." 

"What about _her_ friends?" Joel asked. "Especially women friends. They'd be more likely to know that kind of thing." 

"Aye, there's the rub. She didn't seem to have any friends." 

"Whoa!" Megan sputtered beer over the table. "There's a red flag, mates." 

Lau nodded. "Classic symptom of spousal abuse. Isolate the woman from any friends the husband doesn't approve of. But thirty years ago nobody noticed that little detail. Our brothers in blue -- and I emphasize brothers -- didn't catch it. You guys would have been on it like a dog on a dead raccoon --" 

"Geez, Lau, some of us are eating here..." 

"-- but in the absence of any real evidence to the contrary, the husband's version seems to have been accepted fairly quickly in 1969. The case stayed listed as a missing person, not a homicide." 

"One thing we're forgetting..." H thumped his glass on the table for emphasis, sloshing beer in the process. "Somebody buried a goddam body in _my_ backyard. Dontcha think somebody shoulda fucking _noticed_?" 

* * *

Pat Lau leaned closer to Nathaniel Parker, resting her elbows on the battered table. "If the body buried in the yard of 336 Azalea does turn out to be that of your mother, it would have been buried right about the time she disappeared. Did you notice any unusual activity in the back yard at that time?" 

Parker stared at Lau but she saw no awareness of her in his eyes. His face was an open book, shifting and changing as decades-old memories made their sluggish way up from the deep place where he'd buried them. "They were still arguing when Becca fell asleep... then I went to bed... but I remember, I woke up in the night. I thought I heard something in the yard, but..." 

"Can you describe the sound?" 

Parker closed his eyes. "I'm not even sure I really heard anything... I remember now, it was raining when I woke up. Raining pretty hard... God, I'd forgotten all about that. I didn't remember it back then, I think I told the police I was asleep all night." 

"Yes you did, according to your statement in the case file. You didn't notice anything unusual about the back yard the next day?" 

"I don't think so... not that I really looked at it the next morning. But the police were all over the house, they would have noticed something, wouldn't they?" 

"Did you spend much time in the yard afterwards?" 

"That's funny... now that you mention it, not as much as usual. It rained a lot that spring -- heck, it was Cascade, after all. My dad said he didn't want us tracking in mud, since my mom had just run off, not caring about leaving him to worry about raising us and keeping the house clean. After a while he said we could go out, but to keep us from getting dirty he only let us play... oh God." 

"Are you all right, Mr. Parker?" The man's face went so white all of a sudden Lau was afraid he was going to pass out. 

"He only let us play on the patio... the patio he built only weeks after my mother disappeared." 

* * *

Jim watched his partner watch a National Geographic special on the Amazon. The Amazon... that river in Latin America, the place where Blair did so much fieldwork. Wasn't it Angie Ferris's daughter who was so jazzed at the idea of Blair boating up the Amazon? He turned back to the screen, pretending to watch, but he didn't want to think about Latin America. 

His thoughts drifted to Nat Parker and his sister. What must it feel like to believe for thirty years that your mother had abandoned you, then find out she'd been dead all along and buried under your feet? What would be worse? God knows his own mother's actions had fucked him up royally for a long time, probably were still fucking him up in ways he didn't recognize. Blair could probably give him chapter and verse, but no way was he going to ask. And his father... sure, one of the reasons he didn't get along with his father was that he blamed the old man for driving his mother away, directly or indirectly. You didn't have to be Sigmund Freud to figure that one out. But to wonder if your father had actually killed your mother... and Jim knew Nat Parker must have feared that more than once over the last thirty years. His insistence that his father wasn't physically abusive sounded like protesting too much. Maybe he'd never actually seen the old man do it, but Jim was sure Nat Parker believed his father was capable of physical violence. The fact that he'd gotten away as soon as he could and had nothing to do with his father for twenty years spoke volumes. If there was one thing that Jim Ellison was an expert on, it was avoidance behavior. That and repression. At least he never thought that William Ellison had murdered anybody. How could he stand to be in the same room with him if he had? 

Jim was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost jumped out of his skin when a loud smack suddenly impacted his left cheek. "Jesus, Sandburg, warn a guy, willya?" 

Blair just licked the offending lips and planted another one, this time on Jim's mouth. "How soon we forget... kiss, good. Blair, good. Get sex." 

Jim's body ceased complaining and surrendered, but his mouth insisted on a fruitless rear-guard action. "You should never startle someone who's been trained to kill." 

"Bullshit, at least applied to us. Your senses know it's me even when your higher brain functions are busy obsessing." 

"I wasn't obsessing, I was thinking." 

Blair slid a hand southward along his partner's torso. "Well, cut it out. Sometimes it's not good for you. Come upstairs and I'll explain why, using no recognizable words whatsoever." 

Jim opened his mouth to protest but the wandering hand chose that moment to squeeze something important, and only a groan came out. Maybe there was something to be said for nonverbal communication after all. Blair stood and held out a hand. Jim belatedly realized the TV was off, and he hadn't even noticed when it happened. Levering himself off the sofa, he followed Blair upstairs. 

Jim could recognize a "Blair in charge" moment when he saw one, so he got out of his clothes and onto the bed in record time. Blair joined him, smiling, and loomed above, entwining their hands. He then proceeded to kiss, lick and nibble every inch of the willing body beneath him. Starting with a chaste kiss to Jim's forehead, he moved slowly inward in a spiral pattern, but slowly, so slowly. Some spots were treated to extended attention -- lips, ears, the hollow of the throat, the inside of the thigh, those sensitive places behind the knee. Jim's cock was screaming for attention, weeping with need. Inarticulate sounds had turned to pleas and back to moans again before the incredible Sandburg mouth finally zeroed in and engulfed the organ with such suddenness that Jim's back arched off the bed. Blair pushed Jim back down -- God, he must be spending serious time in the weight room -- and concentrated all his attention on his task. Mouth, hands, even hair got into the act. When Jim finally came, he thought for a moment he might die of it, the sensation was so intense. Sentinel though he was, he barely registered the sound and motion of Blair quickly bringing himself off, or the smell and feel of come peppering his chest and belly. He slid into oblivion. 

When he came to, more or less, the loft was dark, the comforter had been pulled over his cleaned-up body, and a relaxed but sleepy Blair was curled around him. 

"Welcome back, Jim. Good to know I won't have to make up creative explanations for the paramedics. Now go back to sleep. Love you." 

"Love you too." _Couldn't live without you. Couldn't bear it._ Sleep for Jim Ellison was a long time coming. 

* * *

"Found him!" Henri Brown triumphantly waved the first page of a computer printout over his head. 

Lau leaped out of her desk chair and ran over to grab it. "You mean Ronald Parker, right? You really found him?" 

Other members of Major Crime clustered around as Henri read off the address. "He's in Spokane, thank God; we can go interview him without totally breaking the budget. Odd address, though; might not be a private residence. Someplace called Bridge House... maybe it's a halfway house or something." 

Blair elbowed his way between his taller colleagues and peered over Henri's shoulder. "I know a Bridge House in Spokane. It's a hospice." 

Simon shook his head. "How do you come up with this stuff, Sandburg?" 

"A guy who started the grad program at Rainier when I did used them as one of the sites for his dissertation research on ritual aspects of contemporary death customs." 

"Sounds like we better move quickly if we're going to interview him," Lau interrupted. 

Simon glared at her. "Lau, what do you mean 'we'?" 

"Well, sir, I thought I could take Ellison and Sandburg with me." 

"They're not a single entity, Lau." 

"If you say so, sir." 

"And why should I authorize three people to go all the way to the other end of the state to interview a guy who's almost seventy and probably at death's door?" 

"Well, sir, from what I've heard Detective Ellison has a real gift for knowing whether or not someone is lying." 

"Quick on the uptake," Megan mumbled in Jim's ear. "Must be the X chromosomes." 

"If this guy is really sick, it might be difficult to conduct the interview and difficult to interpret his responses in the usual way. And since Sandburg is familiar with the institution he might be able to smooth the way for us. Medical personnel can be difficult when you want to question someone in their care. Sandburg's interpersonal skills could be invaluable." 

Rafe grinned. "Meaning you could use a good bullshit artist." 

Jim and Blair looked at Henri, then at each other. "Sir, if it's a problem we'd be happy to go along on our own." 

Simon threw up his hands. "Normally I wouldn't authorize it, but in the interests of eventually adding another venue to the barbecue rotation, I'll make an exception. I want to clear this up ASAP so H can start on that damn deck." 

* * *

The atmosphere in Conference Room B was more dismal than the rain outside. Simon stared at his cigar like he'd never seen one before. "You think Ronald Parker is _innocent_? I sent you all the way to Spokane so you could knock this case back to square one?" 

Jim shook his head. "I didn't exactly say he was innocent, Simon, but I don't think he killed his wife. I'd swear he lied when he said his wife ran off -- but he was also telling the truth when he said he didn't kill her." 

"Lau? Sandburg?" 

Lau squirmed in her seat. "I can't be quite as definite as that, sir, but I don't think he killed her either. I'd be hard put to tell you why, exactly... cop intuition, I guess." 

"You know," Blair volunteered, "studies have shown that many veteran cops are as accurate as a polygraph. A lot of what people call intuition is simply the application of subtle skills learned through experience. You know, but you can't really tell anyone how or why because the process doesn't operate on a conscious level. I didn't think he was guilty either." 

Simon glowered. "Aren't you a little new to this to have developed cop intuition? Aside from the fact that you're not a cop?" 

"But I've been an anthropologist for quite awhile. In the field, anthropologists get lied to a lot by their subjects. You have to develop similar skills to know when somebody's misleading you or maybe just keeping something back." 

"So how come your love life was such a disaster? I can think of at least two women you dated who turned out to be felons." 

"Ah, Simon, the limbic system always trumps the cortex." 

Megan drained her coffee. "I'm not sure what that means, but my guess is, it's something about making decisions based on advice from the wrong body part." 

Henri had been silent, slumped in his chair. "Now what?" 

Simon rose. "Now you all go back to square one. Review everything we've got. There has to be something we're missing. Ronald Parker may not have killed his wife, but it sounds like he knows something. Is he protecting someone?" 

Lau tapped her fingers on the table. "He didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would do that. He really was a nasty old bastard. I can't imagine him caring about anyone enough to lie to protect him." 

"What about fear?" H suggested. "That's another good reason to keep your mouth shut." 

"What's he got to be afraid of?" Blair countered. "He's dying, painfully. Even if someone found out Parker'd dropped the dime on him, he'd be lucky if he could manage to knock him off before nature beat him to it. If he did manage to kill him, he'd be doing the old guy a favor at this point." 

"Let me know when you've figured it out." Simon closed the door behind him and left his detectives to their fate. With sighs and curses, they reached for the massive piles of paper once more. 

Hours later, Henri threw down the case file in disgust. "We're never gonna solve this. Maybe aliens abducted her, killed her, and buried her in the back yard. Maybe they had a cloaking device." 

Megan sighed. "It's a poser and no mistake. The poor woman didn't seem to have any friends close enough to want to murder her. Her kids were a bit on the young side to have done the kind of damage that killed her. If for some strange reason one of the husband's friends did her in, I can't see the charming Mr. Ronald Parker doing anything but turning him in for the reward." 

"There wasn't any reward," Rafe pointed out. 

"Figure of speech. There was insurance, wasn't there?" 

Lau nodded. "Not a lot, but not a negligible amount, either. I agree, if he knew for sure she was dead he'd rat, instead of waiting seven years, or never, to collect." 

Everyone around the table fell silent. Jim was watching Blair -- because he liked to look at Blair whenever he had the chance -- and was the first to notice the change that came over his features. It was like watching the sun rise... gradual illumination leading to a sudden shaft of brilliance. The others were too exhausted, or depressed, or both, to be paying attention. Jim watched as his partner fished out the case file, then the pile of photocopied newspaper articles he'd brought back from Rainier. Watching the Sandburg mind at work was a matter of endless fascination, even from outside and in relative silence. Jim began monitoring Blair's heart and respiration rates, and noted both were increasing gradually as he flipped from one set of papers to another, clearly looking for something specific. The spike in Blair's vital signs coincided with a brilliant grin, one that was just a little bit feral. Wolf-like, even. 

"You've got something." 

All eyes turned to Jim, then followed his gaze to stare at Blair. "Think Simon will spring for another trip to Spokane? I think we weren't asking quite the right questions." 

* * *

This time they had to drive, not fly, but Jim figured Blair was probably enjoying that. Once they got over the mountains, the rain disappeared. A drive across Washington State from west to east wasn't the worst way to spend a summer day. Jim was sure that if asked, Blair could give the difference in annual rainfall between coastal Washington and the interior. So he didn't ask. Instead, he reluctantly let Lau talk him into conducting the interview. 

"Go for it, Jim," Blair encouraged. "This guy just doesn't take women seriously enough. He has nothing but contempt for them." 

"Only thinly veiled last time," Lau agreed. "And my guess is, he's not too crazy about long-haired Ph.D.s either." 

"Ya think?" Blair grinned. 

Jim sighed. He wasn't thrilled at the prospect, but he couldn't fault their arguments. Besides, if Blair was right, it would be a short interview. The weather was perfect when they pulled up in front of Bridge House Hospice... dry, sunny, full of the scent of flowers. The atmosphere inside the large sunroom where they had arranged to do the interview was almost as pleasant. The only dark cloud was the man hunched in the wheelchair, the man they had come to see. Powerful in his prime, he was now shrunken inside a skin too big for him, his muscles eaten away by the disease that would soon claim his life. He looked closer to ninety than seventy. What life remained was concentrated in his pale eyes. They regarded the three from Major Crime with concentrated malevolence. 

"You again? Got nothing better to do than bother the dying?" 

Jim pulled a chair over to place it forcefully in front of Parker's wheelchair. Blair and Pat Lau sat further back. The old man paid them no more attention than he did the potted plants. 

"We won't be bothering you for long, Mr. Parker. We know you lied to us last time. Not about murdering your wife; we don't believe you did that. But you did bury her and build a patio over her. Didn't you?" Jim lightly touched the old man's arm. 

"You're crazy." The voice was calm, almost without inflection. But everything else went haywire -- heart rate, respiration. Jim even tried some biofeedback techniques Blair had come up with to train him to sense differences in galvanic skin response. 

"Get your goddam hand off me." Seemed to be working. Jim would have been hard put to articulate exactly how, but the feel of the papery skin had changed subtly. 

Jim leaned back in his chair. "Rather than ask you questions, I'd like to propose a scenario to you. The evidence of your wife's body suggests she was stabbed repeatedly by someone of substantial strength. Someone like you were some thirty years ago. But if you didn't do it... 

"Then one of my colleagues here remembered reading something in the paper. A mother of three children disappearing under mysterious circumstances... that's the sort of human-interest angle that sells papers. So there was a lot of coverage of your family, despite your lack of cooperation with the media. A good reporter can dig up quite a bit from public sources. Such as the fact that your older son was quite a football player. Played fullback for Robert Gray High, as I recall. He was good enough that there was speculation about a college football scholarship." 

A hit, a palpable hit. Heart beating like triphammer. 

"A little more digging in some of the more obscure Cascade newspapers, including the _Gray High Bugle_ , gave us quite a lot of information on Jerry. We've met Nathaniel and Rebecca. They're short and slight, and resemble your wife quite a bit. Nathaniel mentioned in passing that Jerry took after you, but we didn't realize how much. At fifteen he was only an inch shorter than you and weighed as much. Big and strong enough to kill his mother. Did he help you bury her, or did you do it alone? How did you manage to clean up that much blood, by the way?" 

"Didn't have to. Sonofabitch, you're not as dumb as you look." 

"Didn't have to?" 

"She was mouthin' off at me but didn't like what I was callin' her. Don't dish it out if you can't take it, I always say. Back door was open; it was a warm night. She put her hands over her ears, ran out the kitchen door into the back yard." 

"Jerry killed her in the back yard?" 

"Surprised the hell outta me, I can tell you. Grabbed a knife from the counter and was out there hackin' at her before I knew what hit me. Guess he didn't like her mouthin' off neither." 

"And nobody heard this? She didn't scream?" 

"It was windy, and there were fewer houses around. Neighbors weren't that close. Besides, I think she was too damn surprised to scream at first. Then he grabbed her throat and kept stabbin'." 

Jim heard a soft sigh behind him, not sure whether it came from Lau or Blair. "So there was no blood to clean up because Eileen was murdered outside. The heavy rain washed away any traces, including any on Jerry." 

"Stupid kid took off. Had to bury her myself. Didn't come back until morning." 

"So why did you help cover up the murder? Somehow I find it hard to believe that parental love was the reason." 

Ronald Parker snorted. "Hah! The kid was a damn good player, good enough to go pro, even. He was gonna be my ticket outta that crappy burg. Then he goes and throws it all away. Good for nothin' just like the rest." 

Jim looked the old man right in his pale, dying eyes. "Would you be willing to sign a statement of what you've just told us? Set the record straight while you still can?" 

Ronald Parker smiled at Jim, the first smile that had ever crossed his face. "Fuck off." 

* * *

Jim was starving when he got home to the loft. Fortunately something smelled not only good but almost done. 

Blair came out of his office. "Long day today. Anything new?" 

"Nah, just cleaning up a lot of old stuff. Wrapping up. You know." 

"Yeah. Right." Blair was twitchy, worked up about something. "Uh, Jim... I was gonna wait until after dinner to tell you this, but... damn, I won't be able to eat if I don't get it off my chest. Have a seat. Have a beer. I'll be right back." 

Shit. This must be it. He thinks I need to sit down _and_ have alcohol. Jim got a beer from the fridge and sat at the dining table. He needed something to lean on. 

Blair came out holding a piece of paper. Nice paper, the kind that universities used for letters that started out "We are pleased to inform you..." Jim got up suddenly. "Look, Blair, I need to show you something first, OK?" 

"Aw, Jim, don't tell me you figured it out. I tried hard to keep this a surprise, too. Did Simon let something slip?" 

"Simon knew about it?" 

"He vowed you'd never hear about it until I was ready to spring it on you... but I had to get a recommendation letter from him. Would have been crazy not to." 

"Right, I get it. He's been your boss for the past year. Well, for a part-time position, but still." Jim pulled his own letter-sized piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Blair. He watched the changing emotions flow over his partner's face as he read it. 

When Blair raised his face he looked like he'd been whacked with a two-by-four. "Jim, what the hell -- this is a letter of resignation!" 

"Look, I'm sorry I spoiled your surprise. I went to Rainier the other day looking for you, so we could have lunch. Before I got to the Poli Sci office, I heard the secretary talking with some girl... clerk, student assistant, whatever. I know about the recommendation letter you requested from Jack Kelso and about the position at Berkeley." 

"Berkeley." 

"It sounds perfect for you. Latin American Studies would be great, you might even be able to find out more about Sentinels, on the q.t., of course. And you'll love an interdisciplinary program, not to mention the weather." 

Blair took a deep breath and let it out. He set the letter on the table, slowly, never taking his eyes off it. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. "So --" The word came out sounding strange, like it had to push through a wall to escape. Blair cleared his throat. "So you resigned from the PD in anticipation of me getting this position? Kind of risky, don't you think?" 

"Even if it weren't this one -- and they'd be crazy not to snap you up -- there'd be another one. You've got your doctorate now and your reputation back. That old battle-axe in Poli Sci said somebody with your qualifications was wasted in law enforcement, and she's right. Not to mention that the position Simon got you at the CPD is only part-time and pays shit. You need more than a make-do job, you deserve a career. Something you really love." 

Blair reached out a hand, touched Jim's letter, sliding his fingers over it like he was reading Braille. "I really love you," he said huskily. His fingers slid off the letter to touch Jim's hand where it lay on the table between them. 

Jim took Blair's hand between his own. "Yeah, well... you need a _second_ career. One that pays better than the Guide gig." 

"Jim, you really love being a cop. I know some days are better than others, but you still really love it. I know you do." 

"Look, it's not like this is a surprise to you. We talked about it before, when you found out about Natalie and Jesse. Berkeley's right across the Bay from San Francisco. You can see Jesse a lot more." 

"What about you? You wouldn't get retirement; you haven't put in anywhere near twenty years yet." 

"If we move to Berkeley, we can sell the loft. It's worth a lot more than I paid for it. I can probably get another job there easy enough. There are more jobs for cops these days than people to fill them. Besides, a gay cop -- in Berkeley? They'll be knocking on my politically correct door." 

"I see. Is this a draft or have you actually turned in the letter?" 

"Turned it in to Simon before I left. Left it on his desk, actually, he was at a meeting. It was a long day, and I didn't feel like arguing." 

Blair closed his eyes, and Jim was amazed to see that the ends of his lashes were pearled with little beads of moisture. "Then what you've given me, love of my life, is a set of tortoiseshell hair combs... and I've gone and sold my hair." 

"Huh?" 

Blair handed his letter over to Jim. "Here's your platinum watch chain. I hope we can get the watch back." 

Jim just stared at Blair, mouth hanging open. Blair gently shut it for him and tilted his head down. "Read." 

Jim read. The letterhead was not U. C. Berkeley's, though it did begin, "We are pleased to inform you...". It was a short letter. Jim blinked, then read it again. It still said the same thing. 

"You've been accepted by the _Police Academy_?" 

"Just can't stop going to school, I guess." Blair grinned. 

"But the letter from Jack Kelso..." 

"Jack Kelso has an excellent reputation in the law enforcement community. He was happy to recommend me for the Academy." 

"But I thought you didn't want to be a cop. A year ago... you said you didn't want to do this then." 

"I didn't want to... then. You shouldn't pick a career on the rebound. Then it was a consolation prize. Now it's a choice. I was a fraud then, a potential danger to you as a partner. Now I'm a guy who was screwed over by a Chancellor who's a felon." 

Jim stared at the letter again, but the familiar CPD seal began to swim before his eyes. "I want you to be happy at what you do, you know that. But I can't help but think about what you've been through already because of me. You've been shot, beaten, kidnapped. Damn it, you've even been killed." Jim blinked and raised his head. "Thinking you were taking a job that would keep you safe in an office or a classroom was pretty good consolation for not having you by my side at work. Now you tell me you want one of the most dangerous jobs there is." 

Blair dragged his chair over closer. Jim felt familiar hands rest on either side of his face, but the blue of Blair's eyes, surrounded by the glittering lashes, held his attention like a magnet. 

"First of all, getting killed had nothing to do with me being a police observer and everything to do with me being a Guide. I'll always be that, no matter what I do. Then let me remind you that all those other things happened to me when I was _not_ a cop. Maybe being a cop will help. Make me more alert. Substitute an aura of 'don't try it' for that 'kidnap me' vibe I apparently project." 

Jim closed his eyes against the almost painful intensity of that loving gaze. "You loved the University. Mrs. Childers said Rainier was your first real home." 

" _Was_ , Jim. Was. Now I'm detaching with love. Besides, Childers exaggerates; she never liked my mom -- or the idea of my mom, they never even met. Maybe in some respects she's right. It was my first home in some ways, the first I chose as an adult, or almost adult." 

Jim felt the soft touch of lips on one eyelid, then the other. "Don't you understand, Jim? You're my last home. You're my home for the rest of my life." 

"God, Blair..." Jim sank to his knees, wrapped his arms around Blair, and buried his face in the man's chest. He felt the arms that wrapped around him just as tightly; the weight of the cheek that rested on the top of his head. Perhaps the cheek in question even had a little moisture on it. Jim held on, afraid to trust himself to speak or even look at the man he held. He was holding himself together as much as he was holding Blair. It wouldn't take much to push him over the line, cause him to engage in behavior that would be embarrassingly emotional for a rough, tough ex-Ranger. A rough, tough cop. Suddenly his head rose, and he looked into Blair's suspiciously bright eyes as he swiped a hand across his own. 

"Shit, I hope Simon's office isn't locked. He'll never let me forget this." 

* * *

Nathaniel Parker shook Henri Brown's hand. "That was a really nice thing to do. I admit now I was worried about coming back here after all these years, but I'm glad I did." 

"We can't thank you enough," Sheila Parker added. "It's beautiful." 

Henri shook his head. "I can't take much credit for it. It was Blair's idea. Cecilia Deveraux designed it, and a lot of people pitched in both with money and labor." 

"I'm still amazed you got it done in such a short time." 

The spot where Nathaniel's mother had lain for thirty years was now a memorial. A rose arbor arched over a cedar bench surrounded by perennial flowers and shrubs; a decorative rock fountain added a soothing sound. At its base was a plaque that read: _In memory of Eileen Parker, 1935-1969, and of all victims of violence whose resting place is unknown._

"I know it looks pretty scrawny now," Henri apologized. "Cecilia said those plants will grow fast, though. I hope you'll come back and see it next year. Or as often as you like." 

The Parkers nodded. "We'd like. Thank you. This is even nicer than the cemetery where we put her to rest." 

Nathaniel took one last look. "I hate to leave, but we need to get on the road. These kids have school tomorrow. At least they'll be quiet on the ride home, after all the activity -- not to mention eating you out of house and home." 

After the Parker children were reluctantly dragged away from a vigorous game of tag with Blair and Megan, and Cecilia Deveraux said her own goodbyes, the members of Major Crime gathered around the arbor. 

"You did good, people," Simon said quietly. "With this, and on the case. I can't think of a better team." 

"Well, it was really Sandburg who solved the case," Lau pointed out, "and had the idea for this memorial. For a 'consultant,' he's a helluva detective." 

"Actually, Jim and I got a little present for Sandburg," Simon announced as Jim handed him the large plastic bag just retrieved from its hiding place. "And Blair has an important announcement. It seems he's decided what he wants to be when he grows up." 

"Sandy, you've got a job? One that pays you real money?" 

Blair stared at the bag dubiously. "Yeah... not as much at first, while I'm being trained. But then my salary goes up in six months." 

"Training?" Rafe exclaimed. "Hard to imagine what you need training for, after going to school for over a quarter of a century." 

Simon handed over the bag. Blair removed an oddly shaped object, swathed in gift wrap. He tore open the paper to reveal -- a large and very pink stuffed pig. It was dressed in a police uniform and sported a very realistic cop hat and accoutrements. Everyone immediately demanded that Blair's "going-away present" be passed around for a better look. 

"Damn, Sandy, it won't be the same without you. Please tell us you're not leaving Cascade." 

"Hope you'll still have time to consult once in a while," Henri added. "We're sure to have more cases that need the Sandburg touch." 

"So what are you going to do?" Rafe demanded. "Don't keep us in suspense." 

A huge smile broke out over Joel's face as he examined the pig. "Some detectives you all are." 

Blair met Joel's eyes and nodded, matching his grin. 

"Excuse me?" Lau said. "Am I missing something?" 

"Didn't any of you notice," Joel asked, "that our little piggy here is wearing a _cadet_ uniform?" 

A few seconds of confused mumbling were silenced by a window-shattering shriek from Megan. "Sandy -- you're going to the _Police Academy_?!" 

"Guilty as charged." 

Pandemonium. 

* * *

The long summer daylight of the Pacific Northwest was finally fading. Simon was helping Henri clean up. Joel was driving home various members of Major Crime whose celebration of Blair's decision had rendered them unfit to operate a motor vehicle. Jim and Blair sat on the bench under the new arbor. 

"Chief, I still keep thinking I'm going to wake up and find this was all a dream." 

"If you say that one more time I'm going to bop you. Speaking of dreams, did I tell you I figured out what that dream meant, the archeological site with all the people disappearing? It was telling me that was no longer my place, no longer my path. Which I'd pretty well figured out on my own by then anyway." 

Jim took Blair's hand. "I just hope it makes you happy. I don't want to belabor the point, but it's not the safest job in the world. And it can really get you down." 

"Ditto for teaching. I have two words for you: Brad Ventriss." 

"Still..." 

"Jim, shut up." With the hand that wasn't entwined with Jim's, Blair flipped open the leather case that held the detective's shield that might soon be his. "It's important work. And I can't think of better people to be doing it with. I just hope I can get through the Academy all right. Something tells me arguing with the teachers is frowned upon there... not that all of my profs at Rainier were crazy about it either." 

"You'll make it. We've all been through it, we'll give you pointers." 

Blair chuckled. "It takes a village to raise a cop?" 

"This one, probably." Jim leaned over and gave Blair a sweet, slow kiss. 

"Come on, partner. Let's go home." 

* * *

End SVS2-16: Gift Exchange by Corbeau: FiveSenses@yahoogroups.com

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